


i try to heal the sky

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Be_compromised Valentine's Day Promptathon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Clint learns about Natasha is that she’s not afraid. The second thing Clint learns about Natasha is that her bones are made of knives.</p><p>[OR, the one where Natasha is an android made for companionship, and Clint isn't supposed to fall in love, but does anyway.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	i try to heal the sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetwatersong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwatersong/gifts).



> Oh god, this was supposed to be short, I swear...and then I looked up and somehow, almost 10,000 words happened.
> 
> For the **be_compromised** Valentine's Day prompathon. Written for the prompt: _"They wired me wrong," she says, as though she has to apologize for who she is, what she does. On a Valentine's Day when androids for companions are now the new norm, Clint meets a woman who is biological in body and electronic in soul. Where does being human begin - and end?_
> 
> Thanks to **bobsessive** for last minute read-through and for always being willing to be my muse.  
>   
> 
> _"Why should I apologize for the monster I’ve become? No one ever apologized for making me this way."_

The first thing Clint learns about Natasha is that she’s not afraid. Which is a lie, actually, because Natasha is afraid of a lot of things -- just not what most people would find fearful. Natasha can drop down from a quinjet in flight while riding on a moving motorcycle, she can walk into a firefight as if she’s strolling onto the beach, she can stand in front of gods and monsters and hold her ground until something forces her to stumble, and even then, she won’t let herself fall.

The second thing Clint learns about Natasha is that her bones are made of knives, but the edges of those knives are soft and blunt. She walks stiffly and calmly and never lets herself show even the smallest of wrinkles, she holds herself sharp and rigid, yet when she allows herself to come apart, she becomes so malleable that you can’t tell where the most important parts of her end and where they begin.

And so when she finally tells Clint, _“I’m wired wrong – they made me all the wrong things,”_ all Clint can think is, _I know_ , all he can think is, _I’ve always known_ , all he can think is, _I wish you didn’t feel like you have to apologize_.

 

***

 

Clint’s been embedded in SHIELD for five years while avoiding the hoopla of Valentine’s Day, Christmas, New Year’s _and_ his birthday before it gets to a point where he finally can’t avoid it anymore, and that wake-up call comes in the form of a paper that appears across his desk as he’s getting ready to leave for a routine workout.

“What’s this?” he asks a little suspiciously, looking up to meet Hill’s eyes. The dark-haired woman shrugs lightly.

“I made a bet with Fury that before you turned 35, you’d have at least one holiday where you didn’t skulk around depressed and alone,” she says with more nonchalance than Clint feels comfortable with, and he glares.

“First of all, my birthday isn’t until the summer. Second of all, I didn’t ask you to meddle in my private life,” he responds a little shortly, but Hill doesn’t look put out by his tone.

“I didn’t meddle.”

“Also, I’m supposed to be in Tijuana in two days,” he continues with a hint of a whine as he pushes the paper back. “The drug bust, remember?”

Hill’s mouth twitches. “I didn’t say I was cancelling your mission.”

“Then what _are_ you saying?” he grumbles, folding himself into his chair as Hill lets her smile grow bigger.

“I’m saying you should take some time for yourself and try to make yourself happy. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“The odds of me getting lucky in online dating are slim to none,” he says as he heaves out a sigh, and Hill shoves the paper in front of his face again.

“You’re not doing online dating.”

Clint leans down as she removes her hand, catching a glimpse of the writing, and immediately recoils.

“Oh hell. You can’t be serious,” and even as he says the words he can see the look on his supervisor’s face, the one that he knows means yes, she _is_ serious, she’s so serious that she’s going to beat him over the head with her logic until he agrees or at least shuts up.

“Need I remind you that you’re a robot half the time around here anyway, Barton?” Hill crosses her arms. “You might as well see what happens when you meet a real one.”

 

***

 

Clint can’t remember the point at which androids as companions became the new norm – somewhere, he thinks, between Bobbi and Venice, when he wasn’t paying attention to the way the world was starting to change with cell phones and comm units and holograms, Stark Tech that Fury had happily invested in for god knows what reason, since Clint thinks that it’s surely _not_ because the company has to keep Tony Stark in business.

And he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he had considered it, on occasion. He hated opening up and he wasn’t the type who fawned over women and led them back to his bed where he could spill his secrets; if they were led there it was more due to the amount of alcohol he’d consumed as opposed to actual comfort and passion. The thought of being with someone who was specifically wired to be emotionless and dull, who probably wouldn’t bother prying into the more secretive parts of his personal life, was a temptation that he didn’t want to admit he thought about more than he should.

But for all his deliberation on the matter, Clint had never bothered to pursue his curiosities, largely because it seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Valentine’s Day often came and went with little fanfare, thanks to a practiced regimen that included keeping himself busy, and he’s found that being alone is easier when he can be just that – alone – whether he’s at home drinking beer or in Vienna, shooting his arrows at bad guys before returning to a dingy motel on the border with a dislocated shoulder.

Clint drums his fingers against the bar counter, halfway through his second whiskey before realizing that he probably shouldn’t have drank the first one so fast, but not bothering to really care that he can already feel the alcohol spreading through his veins. Whoever he was meeting was already over an hour late by his count and in any case, it should make talking easier than it already was going to be, having a conversation with a person that was electronically stimulated to provide neutrality and not much else.

“Hey, stranger.”

The low-throated drone matches the face of a girl who maneuvers her way to the bar, sitting down next to him, and Clint looks up in surprise as he takes her in; long red hair frames wide, green eyes that seem too alive and very much unlike the blank stares that he’s supposed androids would be saddled with.

“Um. Hi,” Clint says gruffly as he fumbles for his phone, silently cursing Stark Tech’s lack of understanding that sometimes your devices don’t _need_ ten million password workarounds. His bulky thumbs finally get the code correct , allowing him to pull up the picture he’d been looking at before she walked in, and he doesn’t even have to sneak another glance to know that she’s definitely not the girl he’s supposed to be meeting.

He puts down his phone and glances up again, observing her more closely. As far as robots of this kind go, she looks more human than any of the others he’s seen, and her expressive eyes roam his face as if she’s studying him, sussing him out and marking him as something like prey.

“Who are you?” he asks, figuring he might as well at least start with that. She blinks once.

“Natasha,” she answers, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Natasha, huh? No last name?”

“No,” she says flatly, although he thinks he detects something in her voice that means she might not be sure after all. He shoves the thought out of his mind, convincing himself that maybe it’s the lighting, or for that matter, his own inebriation. “Just Natasha.”

“Okay, ‘just Natasha,’” he says, suddenly uncomfortable with the way she’s staring at him, almost as if she’s trying to read him. “The thing is…I think I was supposed to be meeting someone else.”

She tilts her head and he sees it again, the slight flash of something that looks like fear but could actually be disappointment, and he’s pretty sure that this time, he’s not imagining it. It’s what compels him to shoot out an arm as she starts to move off the chair.

“Wait,” Clint says, grabbing her wrist. “Wait, just…let me buy you a drink. Okay?” He manages a smile. “I think I’m getting blown off here, anyway.”

She hesitates and then relaxes, sitting back down beside him, though he thinks from the way she’s holding herself she’s still guarding her reactions too strongly to be completely comfortable. “They told me I was meeting a spy,” she says after a long pause. “Are you a spy?”

“I’m…” Clint trails off, trying to figure out how to answer. “Kind of. I wouldn’t exactly use that word, though.”

“What word would you use?” Natasha asks with a curious tone, as if she’s digging without meaning to, and Clint shrugs.

“Archer. I’m a marksman...my name is Clint Barton.”

“Robin Hood,” she says at once, as if she’s been programmed to associate certain words with certain popular culture terms, to make sure she related better to society, and Clint almost laughs at the thought until he realizes that the assessment probably isn’t that far off.

“Steal from the rich and give to the poor, right?” He picks up his drink, swirling it carefully. “What about you?”

“I was trained to be a dancer,” Natasha says. “But I don’t think I’m going to continue being one.”

“Why?” Clint asks, unable to keep his interest at bay, and it’s Natasha’s turn to seemingly stumble over words that Clint thinks should come easier.

“Just didn’t like it very much.”

There’s something about her response, the way she takes an invisible pause before answering, the way the muscles in her throat contract as if she’s trying to convince herself she needs to say or feel something else. Clint watches as she falls back into silence, because of course it would figure that the one time he went ahead with all of this, he’d get a broken product who, in essence, is exactly what he had been hoping to avoid by letting himself get too close to anyone of the opposite sex. Natasha seems to sense his thought process, and slides off the stool before he realizes she’s even moved.

“Where are you going?” Clint asks when he finally finds his voice, but she doesn’t turn around.

“Back home,” she says, pushing through the crowds at the bar and Clint follows without thinking, grabbing his jacket and hastily pushing a few bills across the table.

“Wait, wait,” Clint says, catching up to her as she reaches the door. She still doesn’t acknowledge him, and he keeps on her heels until they’re outside in the parking lot and he can raise his voice more appropriately. “ _Wait_.”

She finally turns, looking more than a little annoyed. “What?”

“Where’s home?” Clint asks as he walks closer, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I can drive you there, if you want.”

“No, thank you.” She shakes her head. “I’ll be picked up in an hour at the bus depot. I’ve already notified the appropriate channels.”

It’s on her last word that her voice breaks, or maybe Clint’s imagining it again, and for a reason he can’t understand, his heart hurts. He’s got no idea where androids come from or where they go when they’re not being shipped out for other people’s needs, and suddenly he finds that he can’t stomach the thought of her going back to some holding cell, where she’d probably be locked up until she could be shipped out all over again for another round of this.

“You can stay with me tonight,” Clint says, shattering the silence. “If you want.” She meets his eyes at that, the lines between her brows creasing heavily.

“You’re going to take me home,” she says slowly, and he nods.

“Yeah. But not because…I mean, I won’t do anything. I just want to give you a place where you can spend the night. Okay?” He holds out his hand, and for a long time, she doesn’t move.

“Okay,” she says when she relents, putting her palm into his own, and he realizes it’s softer and warmer than he would have expected, and he tries not to let himself think about how that makes him feel.

 

***

 

Natasha sits next to Clint in the car and the drive is quiet, with a strange tension drifting between them, like someone has tied a rope between their bodies and is pulling it taut, trying to see how far they can stretch the cord until it breaks. He’s pretty sure he has no right to be driving in the first place after the drinks he’s ingested, but manages to make it back to his apartment unscathed, noticing the painstaking manner in which she moves when he gets out and opens the passenger door.

“It’s small,” she says as Clint lets her into his apartment with a grunt, tossing his messenger bag onto the carpet and flicking on the light.

“It’s okay,” he says because he’s not quite sure what to respond with. It _is_ small, but it’s his, and he’s never really worried about having to show it to or share it with anyone else.

“It’s nice,” she amends as she runs her gaze over the large couch and what he knows are the coffee-stained kitchen tiles, and he thinks he can see a the beginnings of a small smile shadowing her face. Clint leaves her in the barely-there hallway while he walks into his bedroom, rummaging through the contents of the lower drawers.

“I know these are too big, but I’m guessing you don’t want to sleep in that,” he says when he returns, holding out the sweatpants and tee shirt while eyeing her strapless dress. She nods in agreement, taking them from his hands and toeing out of her heels.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, clutching the garments to her chest as he waves her in the direction of the bathroom. He waits until he hears the door close tightly before he strips, unaware of how long it’ll actually take her to change but not wanting to be caught completely naked with her accusing him of doing the exact opposite of what he had promised. The thought almost causes him to laugh as he drops his dress shirt on the floor, pulling on a loose and faded tee.

_If Hill could see me now…_

The creak of the bathroom door shakes him out of his thoughts and he turns to find Natasha standing behind him, looking both apologetic and timid, as if she’s got no idea what to do with herself. Clint finds himself wondering what androids are really wired for after all, if it’s simply for the physical connection that gets promoted in the ads, and if they’re so single-minded that they never give themselves time to think about what it means to truly be intimate with someone.

“What?” Natasha asks and Clint realizes too late that he’s been staring blankly.

“Nothing,” he says, mentally pulling himself together. “Sorry. I’ve got blankets for you and stuff.” He grabs a pillow off of his bed and walks back into the living room, hauling a thick fleece blanket off the armrest. “And I’ll leave the light on if you need to go to the bathroom or anything, so you don’t have to worry about walking in the dark.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says as she sits down, putting her legs up, and Clint rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles, feeling a little helpless. He had barely entertained the idea of connecting with an android enough to talk for the length of dinner, much less the idea of bringing one home. He watches Natasha as fluffs up the pillow and spreads out carefully, almost methodically, as if she’s learned a certain way of sleeping that she’s adapted to, even in places where she doesn’t need to follow rules.

“Goodnight, Clint Barton,” and it takes him a moment before he realizes and remembers he’s told her his name back at the bar. He gives her a small wave.

“Night, Natasha.”

 

***

 

Clint crawls under the covers when he’s put enough space between leaving the living room and closing himself off in the bedroom, passing the time by skimming through old case files on his phone, until his eyes start to glaze with tiredness and unfocused words start to penetrate his vision. When he finally does decide to sleep, it comes with tossing and turning, as if the constant shifting of his body will do anything to help the uncomfortable sensation he feels crawling through his bones. As far as Valentine’s Days go, it wasn’t necessarily the worst (that honor went to being trapped in a landslide a few years ago) but at least it was _over._

Clint wakes up abruptly some hours later as if someone has shocked him, bolting upright with a loud gasp while blinking in the harsh overhead light that’s caused enough of a disturbance to trigger his sensitive mind.

“Did I wake you?”

Natasha’s voice flits quietly into the part of his ear that’s uncovered by the pillow and he struggles to focus.

“Kind of,” Clint says a little gruffly, swallowing down tiredness. “What’s up?”

“I…” She stops, looking a little embarrassed. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Clint takes a few moments, allowing his breathing to stabilize in the wake of being so rudely awakened, before he swings back the covers and tosses his legs over the side of the bed. As if recognizing the act as some sort of silent consent, she walks across the room, and when she sits down next to him he notices with a start that her arms are shaking.

“What’s up?” he asks, placing his hand over hers automatically. She flinches, but doesn’t stop trembling.

“I had a bad dream,” she says softly, the way a child might talk to an adult, and when he sees the way her body sags, he suddenly feels like she’s aged down at least ten years.

“You wanna talk about it?” Clint prods, because he knows there’s no sense in going back to sleep. He’s shit at dealing with women, which is his own fault, but nightmares, well…that was something Clint _could_ do, that was something he knew inside out and could provide therapy for with his hands tied behind his back. Natasha bites down on her lip.

“It was dark, but it wasn’t. And everything was closing in on me…like I couldn’t move. I was watching some kind of cartoon and the girl next to me passed a note and I looked at her and…”

“And?” Clint prompts, feeling lead in his lungs.

“And I wanted to hurt her,” Natasha finishes with a voice that seems to teeter on hysteria, and she’s suddenly so unlike how she had presented herself a few hours ago that Clint can’t help but feel confused.

“Are these your memories?”

“I think so.”

Clint rubs at an invisible spot on his forehead. “I thought androids were supposed to be desensitized,” he says, voicing his thoughts out loud, and to his surprise, Natasha nods.

“We are,” she says a little miserably, looking down at her hands. “It’s not the first time it’s happened.” She pauses after that, shaking back sweat-soaked pieces of hair.

“I think I’m defective.”

Clint’s not quite sure how to respond to that, other than at least give himself a small amount of credit for figuring out that she wasn’t exactly normal in the way she was supposed to be, and a stillness stretches between them that starts to feel stagnant, as if all the air in the room as been used up and it’s a struggle to breathe.

“Well,” Clint says, swallowing down a lump in his throat, fighting for the breath to push his words out. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

“It is,” she insists, something terror-like in her voice, as if she’s realizing for the first time what her own words mean. “We’re not supposed to be like this.”

“But I’m defective,” Clint points out. “I mean, we’re all defective. Just means you’re human, right?”

“I don’t know how to be human,” Natasha says quietly. “The parts of me that are made won’t allow that.”

“And the parts of you that aren’t made?” Clint asks promptly, giving her a sidelong glance. Natasha doesn’t answer, and Clint puts one arm around her shoulder, and eventually, the longer they sit together, the more relaxed she becomes, until he feels what might have been previously sharp edges start to smooth out.

 

***

 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep and, as such, is surprised to wake up and find himself tucked rather neatly into bed, one arm under the pillow supporting his head and the other clutching a swath of covers. He blinks tiredly as his senses start to awaken, turning over and groping for the singular hearing aid he knows he’s left resting on the bedside table.

It’s the smell of caffeine that’s roused him, he realizes, as more of his body falls into alertness, and now that his aid is in he can clearly hear the crackling sputter of what he knows is the coffee maker, along with plates and silverware being clanked together unceremoniously. He hauls himself out of bed and brushes his teeth quickly, before throwing on a pair of track pants and making his way into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Natasha says as he approaches; her back is turned but she seems to hear his entrance as if she’s anticipated it, like she’s been trained to pick up on the slightest of movements.

“What are you doing?” Clint asks a little stupidly as she pokes at some cream-colored batter in the frying pan, and Natasha finally swivels around.

“Making breakfast,” she says, her eyes traveling up and down his bare chest before she reaches for a heavy mug. “I was feeling bad about last night, so I thought I owed you at least a meal.”

“You can cook?” Clint asks as he takes the coffee she’s handed him. Natasha frowns slightly.

“I’m an android, not an animal,” she replies a little bitterly, and when he sees the look on her face, he immediately feels embarrassed by his question. “You clearly don’t know much about me.”

“No, actually, I don’t,” Clint admits as he leans one hip against the counter, because he realizes that it’s true. _I know you have nightmares_ , he wants to say. _I know your name is Natasha and you have red hair that’s probably not red because I can see the razor thin line of blonde at the top of your scalp. I know that you’re not exactly what I was promised, but I also know that’s not really your fault._ He hears her sigh loudly, a sound which seems more pronounced than it should thanks to his aid.

“Androids are biological in body, but electronic in soul,” Natasha says apathetically, as if she’s a teacher trying to school her students. “We’re humans, technically. Or at least, we were – the damaged parts of us were removed to make room for the parts that allow us to be the companions society desperately needs us to be.”

“And what’s that?” Clint asks, though he already knows the answer. Judging by the way Natasha looks at him, he can tell she knows, too, though to her credit, she continues speaking as she puts a stack of pancakes in front of him.

“Unfeeling. Emotionless. We don’t ask the questions that you get scared of, we don’t care if you tried to kill yourself or if you have a disease, or if you’ve been dumped by ten people,” she says matter-of-factly. “We provide you with pleasure and you take the happiness you get from us and let that last you for another 365 days, until this foolish holiday comes around again.”

It all sounds so methodical, like she’s been brainwashed to provide certain answers for certain things, and Clint tries not to dwell on that as she sits down across from him.

“So you were always Natasha?” he asks, and she shakes her head.

“Before I became an android, I was Natalia. But that’s all I know.”

It’s not exactly true, judging from last night, but Clint thinks it’s the wrong time to press her, especially when she’s already given him more than she probably wanted to in the first place. He bites into one of the pancakes, chewing thoughtfully.

“Better than my cooking,” he says after he swallows and Natasha kicks him lightly under the table.

“Told you.”

 

***

 

After Clint has helped her clean up the kitchen (“it’s the least I can do,” and he had added that to running list of android behavior:  _they apparently hate accepting help for the work they’ve been trained to do for others_ ) he proposes a walk, mostly because he’s not ready to ask her to leave. To his surprise, she agrees easily, even going so far as to suggest they find a park because she likes going to parks, and outside isn’t something she routinely sees when she’s locked up in wherever she’s kept when she’s not being sent out for other people’s pleasure.

“Don’t you have to work?” Natasha asks, watching Clint lock the door as they walk down the stairs together.

“It’s Saturday. I’ll send some emails later, but I _do_ get days off.” Clint makes a face. “I’m a SHIELD agent, not a workaholic.”

“So many men are,” she responds and Clint doesn’t stop to wonder how many men there have been before him, largely because he’s refusing to think that this whole thing is anything more than a fling turned wrong. He’s purporting his own wants and needs by keeping her around well past when he should have let her leave, and he knows that, but he also knows that she would never stay with him, that she never _could_ stay with him. She was an android, and broken or not, she served a purpose that went beyond what he could give her.

“Why are you alone?” she asks when they’ve left most of his neighborhood behind, and he does a double-take at her words.

“I thought androids weren’t supposed to care about that stuff,” he says, slowing at a crosswalk.

“And I told you, I think I’m broken,” she replies a little curtly, as if that explains her inquisitive nature. “Is that so hard to understand?”

Clint stares straight ahead. “No,” he admits, crossing the street to the park entrance. It’s mostly deserted except for a few weekend stragglers, some homeless bums and families with kids who are playing on the grass. Clint chooses a bench away from most of the public and motions for her to sit down next to him.

“I guess you could say I don’t have the best track record with relationships,” he hedges. “I’m dangerous. I put people in bad situations. They don’t want me to stay around.”

“Because you’re dangerous?” she asks, and there’s a shadow that falls over her eyes that he catches before it disappears completely.

“Because I’m me.” He leans back against the bench. “So I do my work, and I don’t think about stuff like that.”

“Like I do,” Natasha says as if she’s managed to understand at least that much, and when Clint looks over in her direction, she shrugs. “I’m dangerous, too. I think. Or at least, I was. But if I do what I was supposed to do, I can forget about that.”

Clint wants to ask how often she has the dreams she’d let her guard down about the night before, if that was because she was in a new place or if it was something she went through in the days when she wasn’t being used, but the words die on his tongue when he sees the way her face changes.

“Do you like working?” he finds himself asking instead, sensing something akin to fear hidden in her features. He doesn’t stop to wonder why he can pick it up without almost any thought.

“I like being busy, if that’s what you mean.” She’s holding herself in a way that looks like it hurts, like a tight ball of yarn that’s unwilling to allow a single strand to be unraveled, as if doing so will cause her to fall apart next to him.

“But you don’t want to go back there,” he acknowledges and when she meets his eyes again, he knows he’s hit the right chord. Clint opens his mouth to continue but she moves before he can speak, as if someone has flicked a switch on her body, sending her into fight or flight mode. Her speed and agility render Clint speechless; it’s not how he thought androids were supposed to act, considering he thought they should be delicate, slow, and insensitive beings. He follows just as quickly, already defensive before he realizes what’s startled her in the first place.

“It’s a bird,” he says when he gets his bearings, gesturing to the pigeon that’s swooped into their peripheral vision and landed by Natasha’s feet. “See? Just a bird. Not gonna hurt you. They’re dumb, harmless creatures, really. Probably more scared of you than you are of them.”

It takes a moment after that before she loosens enough to sit back down, and Clint regards her carefully.

“Part of your training, I assume?”

She remains silent, and he’s not sure if that’s because she’s not sure herself, or if it’s because she doesn’t want to open up that part of her life just yet. In the silence, Clint finds himself working over the thoughts that refuse to stop eating his brain.

“You okay?” Natasha asks as she studies his face, and Clint notices that she’s sidestepping his earlier question.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just thinking.”

One eyebrow arches in perfect formation. “About what?”

Clint locks onto her eyes, and goes over the words once more in my head before he says them out loud.

“Making a different call.”

 

***

 

“So let me get this straight,” says Fury, and even over the phone Clint can see his boss trying to keep it together. “Clint Barton, lone wolf of SHIELD, is advocating for a partner. Not a partner from here, not even a trained agent...but an _android_?”

“Look, it sounds crazy, I know,” Clint says hurriedly as he closes the door to the bathroom and Fury practically growls.

“Crazy, my ass. When I said that I wanted you to get laid, I didn’t mean you should attach yourself to the first girl who shows you attention and then take her home like a stray dog.”

“She won’t be a SHIELD agent,” Clint argues, trying to keep his voice low, unsure if androids, human in body as they were, came equipped with anything that made their senses more pronounced. “She’ll just…you know. Go with me on assignments, keep me company. Stuff like that.”

Fury clicks his tongue on the other end of the phone. “ _Stuff like that_. She’s not a lapdog, Barton, she’s a robot. How the hell do you expect me to sign off on this?”

Clint shrugs, even though he knows he can’t be seen. “You’re a Director, you’ll figure something out,” he says with a bit of brashness that he allows himself to revel in for roughly five seconds before Fury’s voice spits itself back over the line.

“Barton, you’ve had some really fucked up ideas in your time, but this one might take the cake.”

“Glad to be of service,” Clint says smoothly. “Put it on my tab for the month, I think Sitwell’s currently in the running for the lottery you all have going on my stupidity.” He ends the call before Fury can respond, smiling to himself as he exits the bathroom. Natasha’s sitting on the couch in the same place and position that she’s been in since they got back from the park, rigid with her legs drawn up to her chest.

“So instead of going back to wherever…wherever it is you go,” Clint says, shoving his phone into his pocket, “I wonder if you’d consider staying with me.”

“You want more breakfast?” she asks automatically, and he finds himself stifling a laugh.

“Well, I won’t turn down anyone who offers to make me coffee,” he confesses, sitting down. “But I’m wondering if you wanted to come work with me for awhile. I’m supposed to leave for Tijuana tomorrow, and I could use the company.”

“You want me...to come there with you?” she asks, as if she doesn’t quite comprehend his request. Clint nods.

“Yeah, if you want. Gets pretty lonely sometimes with these assignments. And maybe you can put some of those skills to use,” he adds, thinking of her reaction in the park. It hadn’t taken him long to put together the fact that whatever was broken inside her amounted to something that could probably be molded into a useful ability, given the swiftness of her response time to something as harmless as a pigeon.

“I don’t know,” she says a little hesitantly. “I wasn’t made for that,” and he can tell she’s trying to convince herself that he can’t see the real truth of her words behind the barrier they’ve already damaged between them.

“Trust me,” says Clint, reaching out. “Neither was I.”

 

***

 

Fury calls back before Clint leaves the next morning and Clint lets it go to voicemail, more out of spite than anything else, only listening to the message when he’s dressed in full gear and has one foot already out the door.

“I’m going to kill you when you come back, if you’re not already dead.”

It’s good enough for Clint, who after years of working with his boss recognizes the words as code for, _you’re a fucked up asshole who is giving me about ten years of stress headaches but I’m going to let this one slide because generally, you do tend to make the best out of the worst situations_ , and he turns around as Natasha walks out behind him.

“All good?” he asks, looking her up and down, trying not to stare too much. He’d loaned her one of Bobbi’s old uniforms that he’d found underneath his bed, the one she’d left at his apartment before she had gone to L.A., the one that he had forgotten about and then failed to return. It’s slightly big around the arms but otherwise fits well enough; Natasha and Bobbi were scarily close to the same build and the clothing is otherwise form fitting enough for Clint to not have to worry about it falling off.

“I feel strange,” she admits as she follows him down the stairs, and he waits, but she doesn’t specify whether she means the suit or the situation, and so Clint starts to talk as he gets into the car.

“My first mission ever was a joke,” he says, pulling into traffic. “Or it was supposed to be. There was a guy that was trying to make an illegal weapons trade on a boat going across the border, and I was supposed to infiltrate him before he snuck them on. I kind of fucked it up, though, my timing was off.”

“You’re alive,” she says as if trying to figure out where he’s going with the story in relation to her earlier words, and he laughs.

“Yeah, barely. The guy was ten steps ahead of me, had me cornered before I could even draw an arrow and threw me overboard. Full uniform, you know? Sunk like a rock to the bottom, ruined all my arrows, too. Thankfully, one of the random bystanders must’ve seen the whole thing and someone rescued me.” He lets his hands tighten around the wheel as he changes lanes. “I got out of any lasting damage, and the guy got away. I really hate the water now.”

Natasha nods, seemingly entranced by the cars flying by on the highway. “So why did you go back?” she asks a little distractedly.

“I almost didn’t,” Clint admits. “But then I realized that if I let one screw-up define me, I wasn’t really going to get anywhere. So I bit my tongue when I got chewed out, and let myself get put on probation, and on my next mission, I did okay enough that they seemed to trust me again. At least, I didn’t have to force anyone to save my ass.”

Natasha closes her eyes and leans her head back against the seat.

“I appreciate your story,” she says, and it sounds like she’s trying to figure out how to phrase a rejection of sorts. “But I’m wired for companionship, Clint. Not for fighting. I’ve never done this before.”

“And if you think I’d let you walk into a trap, you’ve got another thing coming,” he responds automatically. “I trust you.”

“I don’t know why,” says Natasha, with a bit of a laugh. “You barely _know_ me.”

“I know enough,” Clint counters. “You’re defective, remember?”

If the words shake her, she doesn’t let it show. “So are you,” is all she says in return, leveling her tone as they speed down the highway, and Clint’s not sure what kind of bond can exist between two broken people, but he’s pretty sure there’s something fusing between them that feels both scary and electrifying all at the same time.

 

***

 

The quinjet is waiting for them at the edge of a small airfield on the outskirts of Brooklyn, and Clint ushers Natasha on board while ignoring the looks of other agents. At least in her suit, Natasha looks enough like she belongs, though he’s unsure what Fury has told anyone about his situation, or if he’s told them anything at all.

“So what are we supposed to do when we get to Tijuana?” Natasha asks, fingering the gun he’s handed her, looking a little lost. Clint takes the glock out of her hands and loads it sharply before giving it back, clicking the on the safety.

“Leave that to me,” he responds, hoping that he won’t _have_ to tell her much of anything, that he can just tell her to get his back and let him handle most of the heavy work. He’s wrong, and everything seems to go south from the moment they stake their hideout on top of a deserted fire escape over an alley where the exchange for the small flash drive is taking place.

“Fuck,” Clint mutters as the man below becomes aware of their presence. He dodges a shot aimed at his head, grabbing an incendiary arrow and sending it flying. It explodes near the man’s face and Clint flicks his gaze as much as feels he can allow to look over at Natasha, who has already swung herself through the bars of the fire escape and is nimbly working her way down towards the ground. For a brief second, he has a flash of apprehension that he’s made the wrong decision, bringing her into this fight when she didn’t have much of anything in the way of training. But in the next instant, she’s completely derailed the target by sweeping his legs out from underneath him, twisting one hand behind his back and pocketing the goods that they were supposed to be confiscated. Clint pauses halfway down the fire escape, letting his guard drop just enough.

The smile he’s felt creeping onto his face falls quickly when he sees the way she stumbles, almost in slow-motion, as the knife in the man’s other hand rips through her thigh and tears part of the suit into shreds. He grabs for regular-tipped arrow and shoots it in seconds, surprising even himself with his reflex time given that he’s straddling his way down the fire escape, and sends it cleanly into the back shoulder of the man who Natasha has been scuffling with.

Clint hits the ground hard, pulling Natasha up before she loses her balance completely, trying not to let himself panic about the amount of blood he can see darkening her leg.

“You okay?” he asks as he glances at their target, who lies unmoving. Clint’s pretty sure he hasn’t shot to kill, but he never misses, and he certainly has no intention of waiting around to make sure his theory holds true this time around.

“Fine. Hurts,” she spits out through gritted teeth and immediately, the guilt he’d previously felt about bringing her into a mission is back, settling into his gut like an anchor.

“I know. Can you walk?” When she shoots him a glare, Clint sighs. “Look, there’s a safehouse about two blocks from here,” he continues, shifting so that he can support her better. “That’s where I was supposed to be waiting out extraction.”

She nods her approval and he starts to drag her through the alley, not realizing how much of her weight he’s having to pull until his labored breathing starts to match her own. “What about your guy?” she gasps as they approach the doorway of what seems like a nondescript flat wedged in between two much larger, ornate houses that almost dwarf it from view.

“If I hit him right -- and I know I did -- he should be out for at least another few hours,” Clint grunts, fumbling with the three locks and a few buttons on a keypad. “I’ll radio SHIELD to take him in, agents should be able to get there within fifteen minutes.”

“And us?” Natasha asks as he kicks in the door, pulling her close behind him. Clint groans.

“That’s going to take a bit longer. We need transportation and border clearance, not to mention medical attention.” He turns to key in another code, before working on another set of locks.

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to protect yourself,” she notes dryly after he finishes. Clint snorts as he helps her limp to the bathroom

“You should’ve seen what security was like before all this tech came along. It was basically a free-for-all on how well you could barricade yourself somewhere before people got to you...the invention of electronics was the best thing that could’ve happened,” he says, before realizing that he’s talking about it all as if it’s there for his own pleasure, as if _she’s_ not made up of the same thing, codes and protective blinders and passwords that people take for granted.

“Sorry,” he apologizes when she looks away. “I just...I guess I just keep forgetting that you’re --”

“Not human?” she asks icily. “A robot? That’s what I’m supposed to be, anyway.”

He hears it in her voice, the way she’s trying to hold herself together, and wonders if their situation has unleashed another unwanted memory, though he knows now is not the time to ask.

“Hold that to your leg,” he says instead of responding, giving a thick towel that he’s found in the linen closet. “I need to get the bleeding to stop enough so I can get a look at the cut.”

“I’ll be okay,” she says as she presses the towel harder against her skin, and he can’t help the shudder that passes through his body as he watches it soak up blood.

“You’re biological in body,” he reminds her, and she rolls her eyes.

“Then it means I’ll heal. Probably with a biological scar.”

Clint sighs again, trying to push the guilt away. It was everything that he had tried to avoid, getting close only to shut down, and he had done it because, ironically, he _didn’t_ want to be alone.

“Looks like the guy had terrible aim, especially for being at such close range,” he says when she removes the towel, leaning over to inspect the gash. “Just a surface wound. As long as I can get the bleeding to slow, I can patch you enough to be okay until we get back for some stitches.”

Natasha nods, biting down on her lip as he gives her a fresh towel.

“I wish I was an android sometimes,” he mutters as he bends down, using his own hand to apply pressure, and she laughs dryly.

“Trust me. You don’t.”

Clint stares at the growing red spots on the towel, electing not to follow up on that response. “How much do you hate me? For dragging you into this?”

Natasha shrugs with all the detachment Clint thinks she can muster, as if it’s taking everything she has to react the way she’s been taught to, and not the way she _should_ react. “You were lonely. You wanted company. My job is to make people feel like they’re not lonely.”

“By sleeping with them,” Clint says hotly. “Not by accompanying them into a mission where they could’ve died.”

Natasha stares at him for a long time, and then frowns. “You’re hurt,” she points out and he opens his mouth to protest that because he’s pretty sure he hasn’t injured himself, before he realizes that’s not what she means.

“I need to clean this thing,” he repeats a little tiredly and she looks exasperated, like she can’t understand why he won’t agree to her assessment. Still, she lets him wipe the rest of the blood away, until he’s gotten enough of it off to justify trying to sanitize it.

Natasha hisses loudly as he dabs the alcohol onto her skin, before pressing two large bandages together and securing them with surgical tape from the first aid kit he’s unearthed from under the sink.

“Be careful,” Clint says as he helps her up. “Probably shouldn’t put too much weight on this right now.”

“I know how to walk,” Natasha responds as she lets him help her out of the bathroom and towards the bed. She places herself on top of the badly patterned covers as Clint strips himself of his dirty suit, realizing as he does so that half of it is now caked with her blood. When he’s down to his boxers, he walks over and sits next to her, close enough so that their knees are touching.

“Natasha --”

She cuts him off by turning her head and as she closes her mouth around his, the air, along with his words, is sucked out of his body like a vacuum. _A lifeline_ , he thinks as her tongue snakes in between his teeth, and when she shares her air he feels like she’s giving him the breath he hasn’t realized he needs so desperately to live.

“What are you doing?” he asks when she finally breaks away, and Natasha pulls back with a puzzled look.

“You don’t want it?” The lines around her eyes crease. “This is why I was made.”

“I know,” Clint says, suddenly feeling lightheaded. “I know that. But you’re hurt, and….and you’re hurt,” he finishes lamely, unsure of how to voice the real issue lodging itself in his throat, the one that in any other situation he wouldn’t have worried about her reading.

“So you don’t want sex and you don’t want comfort,” she says wisely. “Then what do you want?”

Clint moves closer, blinking rapidly against suddenly heavy eyes as he pulls her against him, the heat of her wound and the bandage rough and coarse against his own bare skin.

“Tell me,” he says when he feels the sharpness of her form start to waver. “Tell me when you realized you were broken.”

Natasha stays silent for a long time before she speaks, and he wills himself to respect her quiet, to not push her if she decides that she doesn’t want to say anything.

“It wasn’t a dream,” she says quietly. “I was eating, with the other androids. The girl I share a room with offered me half of her bread, because I didn’t get any. She was just trying to be nice, I think.” Natasha swallows hard. “I felt like I wanted to rip her throat out.”

“Felt like it, or saw yourself doing it?” Clint questions. She cringes.

“Both, kind of. I felt the rage, as if something was ingrained in me that I had forgotten. Later, I had visions...or, I guess you’d call them nightmares. I knew we weren’t supposed to feel those things, so I never told anyone. I thought I was alone.” Her voice drops off, and he rests a cheek against her hair without thinking about it.

“Mine was the first time I had a solo assignment,” he trades, surprising himself with how candid he suddenly feels. “Not with SHIELD, like the job I told you about in the car, but when I was working for another agency. I had to detain someone who was being unruly, and he put up a fight. Hit me so hard I almost blacked out.” Clint pauses to take a breath. “Not uncommon in my line of work -- hell, not uncommon for me at all -- but it was like he hit me hard enough to knock something loose. I could barely move, but all of a sudden, I was attacking him so hard, I couldn’t stop.” He laughs sardonically in the wake of his words. “That was my last day on the job.”

Natasha doesn’t immediately respond, but he feels her pulse quicken and then slow against his the beat of his own heart, and it tells him enough about what she’s thinking.

“It’s easy to feel alone,” he continues. “I’m still learning how to not be broken.”

Natasha’s breath hitches at that. “Well,” she says, and he notices she doesn’t try to hide the hesitancy in her voice, which is so low that he almost misses the rest of her words, “at least we can be broken together, right?”

 

***

 

It takes a week for Clint to get in front of Fury long enough to explain and apologize for what’s happened in Tijuana, while Natasha is taken care of in Medical on Clint’s orders, and then sent home to his apartment with the requisite drugs and warnings.

“You’re damn lucky that guy had bad aim,” Fury says after he’s finished his tirade. “Do you know what would’ve happened to me if the Council learned you took an unarmed and untrained civilian into a compromised zone and she was _mortally wounded_ there?”

“But I wasn’t depressed while I was away,” Clint offers, sitting forward in the chair. “So that’s something, right?”

Fury closes one eye, and Clint’s pretty sure he can see an invisible vein pulsating angrily through Fury’s temple. “You ever do something like this again, I’ll have you on desk duty for a year. I’m not joking, Barton.”

(And Clint can’t help but think that if it meant he could have Natasha beside him, he’d be plenty fine with desk duty for however long he was sentenced.)

 

***

 

“Are you in trouble?” Natasha asks when he walks in the door, and he would be lying to say that he hasn’t gotten used to having her around, even though it’s been less than a week since their first meeting.

“Kind of,” Clint says, kicking off his shoes. “But that’s not your fault. Mostly mine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hmmm. Well.” Natasha stands with a grimace. “I’m sorry, anyway.” She picks up a mug, handing it over. “I made you coffee. I know they told me I’m not supposed to move, but I couldn’t sit still anymore.”

He huffs out a small laugh as he accepts the cup. “It’s fine,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to. Just as long as you don’t kill yourself with anything in this place..it’s kind of a minefield.”

“No shit,” Natasha says flatly, toeing a shoe out of the way, and he chuckles again as he starts to drink.

“So what did your boss say is the time frame on me?” she asks, her voice dropping back into a tight coil once she’s re-settled herself. “Until I heal, or something?”

Clint stops with the cup halfway to his lips, and puts it down on the coffee table. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he says honestly, joining her on the couch, and Natasha looks a little annoyed.

“What I mean is, when do you send me back to the factory?” she clarifies bluntly, her fingers becoming stiff white twigs, and he realizes it’s the first time he’s heard her speak so openly about where she’s come from. As if seized with an impulse that he can’t fully control, he finds himself responding without hesitation.

“You’re not going back there.” She looks up in surprise as he mentally tries to gather himself and the thoughts firing through his brain.

“What do you mean?”

Clint takes another breath. “I mean, you’ll stay with me, and you’ll heal, and...maybe you can become my partner.”

Natasha continues to eye him warily, as if she’s searching for a loophole in his proposal. “So you want me to sleep with you,” she confirms, and Clint shakes his head roughly.

“No. Not a sexual partner -- a _partner_. Someone who goes into the field with me, who takes care of me...someone who has my back.”

Natasha bursts out into a laugh, and Clint is startled enough that he almost falls off the couch before he steadies his body.

“You can’t have me as a partner, Clint,” she says once she composes herself, her voice slipping back into the reasonable drone that he’s come to realize is trademark of her kind. “I’m not real.”

“I beg to differ,” he argues, and Natasha suddenly turns serious, thinning her lips so tightly it looks like it hurts.

“My body is real. But my soul isn’t.”

“And you said yourself that you were broken,” Clint responds. “Which means that you’re _not_ what they made you. Which means that you can make yourself into what you want, despite how you’re supposed to be wired.” He watches the way her eyes drop, the way her hands tense, as her emotions work to reconcile the information that he’s throwing at her.

“I’m an _android_ ,” Natasha bites back, as if she needs to keep repeating what she knows, but her rebuttal comes out sounding worn and rundown rather than curt and angry. “I can’t take care of you.”

“Wanna bet?” Clint grins. “I’m feeling pretty good about my survival odds when I think about what you could do with some real training.”

Natasha seems to consider that for a moment before leaning back as much as she can, closing her eyes. “You can’t fix me,” she tries one last time as Clint reaches for her hand.

“I know,” and Natasha’s eyes open as he threads their fingers together, and he finds that there’s a watery film sitting on top of her pupils that’s so real, it makes him ache, and it feels like he’s watching his own self crumble under the watchful eye of someone who knows what it’s like not to be able to hide their emotions.

“That’s the last thing I want to do.”

 

***

 

Six months later, in Kazakhstan, they’re dodging fire and arrows and Natasha yells something over his comm that he thinks he hears, but doesn’t quite catch.

He fires an arrow in her direction and catches the glint in her eye as she turns, thinks about the words that he’ll say later, when she’s coming apart in his arms, when she’s finally at peace with being broken, electronic parts be damned.

 _I love you, too_.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated!


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